PAULINE VIARDOT
Alfred de Musset covered Maria Malibran's tomb with immortal flowers and
he also told us the story of Pauline Garcia's debut. There is also
something about it in Théophile Gautier's writings. It is clear from
both accounts that her first appearance was an extraordinary occasion.
Natures such as hers reveal themselves at once to those who know and do
not have to wait to arrive until they are in full bloom. Pauline was
very young at the time, and soon afterwards she married M. Viardot,
manager of the Théâtre-Italien and one of the finest men of his day. She
went abroad to develop her talent, but she returned in 1849 when
Meyerbeer named her to create the rôle of Fides in _Le Prophète_.
Her voice was tremendously powerful, prodigious in its range, and it
overcame all the difficulties in the art of singing. But this
marvellous voice did not please everyone, for it was by no means smooth
and velvety. Indeed, it was a little harsh and was likened to the taste
of a bitter orange. But it was just the voice for a tragedy or an epic,
for it was superhuman rather than human. Light things like Spanish songs
and Chopin mazurkas, which she used to transpose so that she could sing
them, were completely transformed by that voice and became the
playthings of an Amazon or of a giantess. She lent an incomparable
grandeur to tragic parts and to the severe dignity of the oratorio.
I never had the pleasure of hearing Madame Malibran, but Rossini told me
about her. He preferred her sister. Madame Malibran, he said, had the
advantage of beauty. In addition, she died young and left a memory of an
artist in full possession of all her powers. She was not the equal of
her sister as a musician and could not have survived the decline of her
voice as the latter did.
Madame Viardot was not beautiful, indeed, she was far from it. The
portrait by Ary Scheffer is the only one which shows this unequalled
woman truthfully and gives some idea of her strange and powerful
fascination. What made her even more captivating than her talent as a
singer was her personality--one of the most amazing I have ever known.
She spoke and wrote fluently Spanish, French, Italian, English and
German. She was in touch with all the current literature of these
countries and in correspondence with people all over Europe.
She did not remember when she learned music. In the Garcia family music
was in the air they breathed. So she protested against the tradition
which represented her father as a tyrant who whipped his daughters to
make them sing. I have no idea how she learned the secrets of
composition, but save for the management of the orchestra she knew them
well. She wrote numerous _lieder_ on Spanish and German texts and all of
these show a faultless diction. But contrary to the custom of most
composers who like nothing better than to show their compositions, she
concealed hers as though they were indiscretions. It was exceedingly
difficult to persuade her to let one hear them, although the least
were highly creditable. Once she sang a Spanish popular song, a wild
haunting thing, with which Rubinstein fell madly in love. It was several
years before she would admit that she wrote it herself.
[Illustration: Mme. Pauline Viardot]
She wrote brilliant operettas in collaboration with Tourguenief, but
they were never published and were performed only in private. One
anecdote will show her versatility as a composer. She was a friend of
Chopin and Liszt and her tastes were strongly futuristic. M. Viardot, on
the contrary, was a reactionary in music. He even found Beethoven too
advanced. One day they had a guest who was also a reactionary. Madame
Viardot sang to them a wonderful work with recitative, aria and final
allegro, which they praised to the skies. She had written it expressly
for the occasion. I have read this work and even the cleverest would
have been deceived.
But it must not be thought from this that her compositions were mere
imitations. On the contrary they were extremely original. The only
explanation why those that were published have remained unknown and why
so many were unpublished is that this admirable artist had a horror of
publicity. She spent half her life in teaching pupils and the world knew
nothing about it.
During the Empire the Viardots used to give in their apartment on
Thursday evenings really fine musical festivals which my surviving
contemporaries still remember. From the salon in which the famous
portrait by Ary Scheffer was hung and which was devoted to ordinary
instrumental and vocal music, we went down a short staircase to a
gallery filled with valuable paintings, and finally to an exquisite
organ, one of Cavaillé-Coll's masterpieces. In this temple dedicated to
music we listened to arias from the oratorios of Handel and Mendelssohn.
She had sung them in London, but could not get a hearing for them in the
concerts in Paris as they were averse to such vast compositions. I had
the honor to be her regular accompanist both at the organ and the piano.
But this passionate lover of song was an all-round musician. She played
the piano admirably, and when she was among friends she overcame the
greatest difficulties. Before her Thursday audiences, however, she
limited herself to chamber music, with a special preference for Henri
Reber's duets for the piano and the violin. These delicate, artistic
works are unknown to the amateurs of to-day. They seem to prefer to the
pure juice of the grape in crystal glasses poisonous potions in cups of
gold. They must have orgies, sumptuous ceilings, a deadly luxury. They
do not understand the poet who sings, _"O rus, quando te aspiciam!"_
They do not appreciate the great distinction of simplicity. Reber's muse
is not for them.
Madame Viardot was as learned a musician as any one could be and she was
among the first subscribers to the complete edition of Sebastian Bach's
works. We know what an astounding revelation that work was. Each year
brought ten religious cantatas, and each year brought us new surprises
in the unexpected variety and impressiveness of the work. We thought we
had known Sebastian Bach, but now we learned how really to know him. We
found him a writer of unusual versatility and a great poet. His
_Wohltemperirte Klavier_ had given us only a hint of all this. The
beauties of this famous work needed exposition for, in the absence of
definite instructions, opinions differed. In the cantatas the meaning of
the words serves as an indication and through the analogy between the
forms of expression, it is easy to see pretty clearly what the author
intended in his _Klavier_ pieces.
One fine day the annual volume was found to contain a cantata in several
parts written for a contralto solo accompanied by stringed instruments,
oboes and an organ obligato. The organ was there and the organist as
well. So we assembled the instruments, Stockhausen, the baritone, was
made the leader of the little orchestra, and Madame Viardot sang the
cantata. I suspect that the author had never heard his work sung in any
such manner. I cherish the memory of that day as one of the most
precious in my musical career. My mother and M. Viardot were the only
listeners to this exceptional exhibition. We did not dare to repeat it
before hearers who were not ready for it. What would now be a great
success would have fallen flat at that time. And nothing is more
irritating than to see an audience cold before a beautiful work. It is
far better to keep to one's self treasures which will be unappreciated.
One thing will always stand in the way of the vogue of Sebastian Bach's
vocal works--the difficulty of translation. When they are rendered into
French, they lose all their charm and oftentimes become ridiculous.
* * * * *
One of the most amazing characteristics of Madame Viardot's talent was
her astonishing facility in assimilating all styles of music. She was
trained in the old Italian music and she revealed its beauties as no one
else has ever done. As for myself, I saw only its faults. Then she sang
Schumann and Gluck and even Glinka whom she sang in Russian. Nothing was
foreign to her; she was at home everywhere.
She was a great friend of Chopin and she remembered his playing almost
exactly and could give the most valuable directions about the way he
interpreted his works. I learned from her that the great pianist's
(great musician's, rather) execution was much simpler than has been
generally supposed. It was as far removed from any manifestation of bad
taste as it was from cold correctness. She told me the secret of the
true _tempo rubato_ without which Chopin's music is disfigured. It in no
way resembles the dislocations by which it is so often caricatured.
I have spoken of her great talent as a pianist. We saw this one evening
at a concert given by Madame Schumann. After Madame Viardot had sung
some of Schumann's _lieder_ with the great pianist playing the
accompaniments, the two great artists played the illustrious author's
duet for two pianos, which fairly bristles with difficulties, _with
equal virtuosity_.
When Madame Viardot's voice began to break, she was advised to devote
herself to the piano. If she had, she would have found a new career and
a second reputation. But she did not want to make the change, and for
several years she presented the sorry spectacle of genius contending
with adversity. Her voice was broken, stubborn, uneven, and
intermittent. An entire generation knew her only in a guise unworthy of
her.
Her immoderate love of music was the cause of the early modification of
her voice. She wanted to sing everything she liked and she sang
Valentine in _Les Huguenots_, Donna Anna in _Don Juan_, besides other
rôles she should never have undertaken if she wanted to preserve her
voice. She came to realize this at the end of her life. "Don't do as I
did," she once told a pupil. "I wanted to sing everything, and I ruined
my voice."
Happy are the fiery natures which burn themselves out and glory in the
sword that wears away the scabbard.